Saint of Art

Blindsight, Saint of loss, Saint of the lonely calling, the velvet glove, the binding weight. Saint of frenzy, Saint of manias, Saint of schizophrenics.

So you have this mad weird impulse, right, like an itch inside your hands. Or things in your brain that won’t go away. Like a ticking clock. It makes you want to throw yourself through a window, it makes you want to burn every bridge you ever built. There’s so much pain in the world, it feels like a rope around your neck, ever-tightening. The seawater is at the deck now, lapping at your toes. You can’t put off the inevitable, but fuck you can try and make sure that you leave something behind.

She is the saint of the conviction that life isn’t worth anything unless you are there to see it, to see the tree fall in the forest, but you can’t see everything, you can’t know everything. The appetite inside you, the great hollow, that’s where she lives. Simultaneous claustro and agoraphobia, you can’t move your limbs but your mind wheels through a limitless void, freewheeling.

She grants, if not order, direction. An internal compass to navigate by. A distant star on the inside of the sack. A breeze nobody else can feel. Resent the ignorant, detest the passive witness, and open the door on your own internal universe.